


In The Middle of a Mystery

by rillalicious



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: EWE, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-02-28 14:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2735987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillalicious/pseuds/rillalicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Harry, Hermione and Ron go searching for the source of magical outages, fallen owls aren't all they find in the snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Middle of a Mystery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darkravenwrote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkravenwrote/gifts).



> Thank you so much to my beta, S! Darkravenwrote, I love dystopian fic, too, so I found that prompt irresistible. I hope you enjoy this!

"The owls have gone missing again." Hermione's voice is flat and low as they trudge through the snowy field. 

"Might not be," says Ron. "Just 'cause we haven't seen one in a while. Maybe there just aren't any messages right now." 

Harry pulls his scarf up over his mouth and doesn't say anything. He knows why Ron wants to believe that, but he also knows the sky has been clear for far too long this morning. Not a single shadow against the grey overhead. 

Hermione takes his silence as confirmation. "It's another magic blackout, isn't it?" she says. 

No one draws a wand to check. Sometimes it's better not knowing. Schroedinger's cat, Hermione calls it. There's still magic in the world if you don't open the box. 

"We're almost there," Harry says finally. "Once we find it, you two set up the safe house and I'll go looking."

Ron drops his chin to his chest, that last bit of unreasonable optimism defeated. 

The safe house isn't far, and it's less of a house than a dilapidated, abandoned cottage tucked into a grove of hemlock. But it's off the grid, and that's what they need right now. Before Harry leaves to search for owls, Hermione hands him the pair of fingerless gloves she's just finished knitting. He slips them over his own threadbare gloves, his hands too numb for the extra warmth to help right away, though slowly feeling begins to creep back into the base of his fingers. 

He doesn't say goodbye. They never do anymore. Goodbye is just a reminder that the person leaving might never come back. It's better just to treat it as another part of the day. The door clicks shut behind him and the silence of freshly fallen snow wraps around him like a cloak. He stands there for a moment, watching the path of three sets of footprints that leads up to the door, then turns and starts off in the other direction. 

Over the lea, the snow is deeper, and Harry plods through it up to mid-calf, pushing it out of the way instead of trying to lift his feet above its mantle. A simple charm would clear the path for him, and finally the frustration boils over and he pulls his wand, cursing under his breath when nothing happens. His boots crunch over the thin layer of ice beneath the snow, the midafternoon sky growing dark behind heavy clouds, and he walks for nearly an hour before he smells smoke. 

He palms the smooth wooden handle of the sharp-edged knife Ron's brother Charlie gave him before they set off on this mission. He thinks about how it would feel to use it on something, anything that bleeds. Before Charlie gave it to him, Harry watched Charlie gut a dead rabbit without flinching, and cook the thing over a fire he lit with matches. The magic was gone for three days that time. Hermione promises there's enough food in her rucksack for three days. Ron says good, because he has no intention of killing an animal by hand, and everything else is frozen over. Harry knows that Charlie's primary worry was actually self defense, but he doesn't mention this to Ron.

So it is that Harry is thinking about the sharp edge of the knife sliding over flesh, producing beads of blood, as he comes upon the encampment. He wonders if it would look different than _sectumsempra_ , and the vision in his mind of those scars splitting Draco Malfoy's skin so long ago is so vivid that he almost doesn't realize the man with snowy blond hair is really crouching here in front of him for a long moment. 

Draco's hands are pressed over the smoldering coals and a thick grey curl of breath is slipping from his parted blue lips. If he hears Harry approach, he doesn't look up. 

"If you can find anything worth taking," he begins, and his voice is like a branch drawn across rough ice, "have it. I'm done for." 

"Malfoy?" says Harry, and the words spilling from his own lips are so easy, so warm from his chest, that he feels strangely decadent in this frozen wasteland. 

One corner of Draco Malfoy's mouth curves just enough to dig a thin groove into his face. 

"Potter," he says, and though he clearly has not spoken for days, the word has not lost its old venom. "Of course."

With some effort, he turns his head to look at Harry, his gaze slowly moving up from the snow at Harry's feet to the knife in his hands. 

"Put that silly thing away. Do I look in any shape to fight you?" 

Harry is still watching him, torn between horror and fascination. He doesn't understand how it came to be that they are both _here_. It takes several beats before he even understands, without any exaggerations, that Draco is out here freezing to death. He shoves the knife back into its leather sheath and then his coat pocket. 

"You need shelter, Malfoy," he says. "When was the last time you ate?" 

Draco lowers his head and falls back away from the fire. "The magic went out fourteen hours ago. I don't… I'd already been here for twelve." He's shaking now, though Harry suspects it is from shock rather than the cold. 

"How are you still alive?" Harry asks, and he's peeling off his heavy outer coat. 

"Don't know," Draco rasps. "Sheer stubborn will. Refusal to let my father win." 

Harry doesn't ask what that means, though he finds it encouraging. He wraps the coat around Draco's shoulders, pulling the hood over the thin crust of ice on Draco's hair. Longstanding rumor has been that Lucius Malfoy is involved in whatever dark forces have been causing the magical outages. If Draco's turned on him, that may mean he's out here for the same reason as Harry. 

Draco is half frozen, and dragging him to his feet is harder than Harry expects. He can't extend his arms, or straighten his knees very well, and Harry is glad for the open path he pushed through the snow with his legs. By this, the return trip is easier. The wind is at their backs now, and Harry is glad of it, glad that it isn't cutting at the corner of his eyes like knives, glad that it isn't beating against Draco's already labored breath. Draco's weight is heavy and stiff. Harry's back aches where it's been bent for too long. 

" _Fidelius_ ," Draco croaks as they step inside the wide arc that brings the cottage into view. "Magic was working when I passed it." 

"Ironic, yeah?" Harry says. "You were so close."

"Unfortunate," Draco says. The cough that follows sounds like cracking ice. "Not ironic."

"Can you wait to be a prat until after we've saved your life, Malfoy?" 

Draco sighs. "I'll try."

Harry can't help smiling as he pushes open the door. 

"Did you find any--Fuck, Harry. What's _that_?" A half-chewed bite of sandwich falls from Ron's mouth.

"Weasley," says Draco, as if Ron has given him a proper greeting.

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione is at their side in an instant. "How did this happen? Where was he? He's frostbitten all over. Get him into the bedroom. Hurry." 

As he has been so many times before, Harry is grateful that her practicality trumps all else in these situations. 

"Not on _my_ bed!" Ron calls out, but their backs are to him now and no one is listening. 

Harry lowers Draco to the bunk he's been using. Draco is shaking all over, his breath coming in tight wheezes. 

"Get yourself into something warm and dry, Harry," Hermione scolds, and she draws her wand. "The magic came back two minutes before you got here. Use it and get warm. We don't know how long it will last this time and I can't treat two of you for hypothermia as well as I can treat one."

She is peeling off the layers of Draco's clothing carefully, and setting them aside, and the sight of a bare, pale blue shoulder marred by a long raised scar has Harry mesmerized.

" _Harry_ ," Hermione says again, looking back over her shoulder at him. "Did you hear me?"

"Right," Harry says, and he has to shake his head to clear the image. "Right. I'll get dressed." 

Out in the kitchen, Ron is still eating as if nothing's happening, and he hardly looks up as Harry starts stripping in front of the fire. 

"What the hell is Malfoy doing out in this mess?" Ron says finally. 

"Dunno, Ron," says Harry, pulling a dry jumper over his head. "I was a little busy trying to not let him die to interrogate him."

Ron shrugs and continues eating as Harry lays out his clothes in front of the fire. Harry can't help stealing glances over his shoulder, toward the hall. Hermione hasn't resurfaced in a long while. Finally, he sits across from Ron. 

"You'd better eat it whilst the heating charm's still working," says Ron. "Food'll go cold fast after that."

Harry nods and fills his bowl. Hermione's made something of a stew from some freeze dried meats and a tin of something they managed to scavenge from an abandoned flat along the way. It reminds Harry of the meals he sometimes had to eat at the Dursleys, on the nights that they had company for dinner and left him to his own devices and an almost bare pantry. 

He grabs a second bowl and fills it, too. 

"For Malfoy," he explains, when Ron cocks his head. 

"Is he in any shape to eat?" says Ron.

"Dunno." Harry jumps to his feet. "I'll go see." 

As he walks away with Draco's bowl, Ron calls out, "Can I finish yours?" 

Harry waves him off with one hand, then slips into the bedroom. 

Draco looks small and fragile, sitting up and pressed into the corner of the lower bunk, knees pulled up to his chest, beneath a rough grey blanket. He's clutching a steaming mug in his hands. 

"Lemon water," Hermione explains. "I didn't have anymore tea."

"But you had lemons?" 

"I can't control what those people leave behind in their kitchens."

"Fair enough," says Harry. "I thought he might be hungry." 

"Don't speak about me in the third person," says Draco. "I'm not dead yet."

"Nor is his caustic wit," says Hermione, rolling her eyes as she passes Harry. "I'm going to dry these clothes as best I can and freshen some towels. Feed him if he wants to eat. Let him starve if he prefers." 

When she's gone, Harry shakes his head. "You weren't nice to her, were you? She's saving your life. You should be nice to her." He sits on the edge of the bed and offers the soup.

"She was prodding me unnecessarily," Draco says, and he takes the same tone Harry remembers from Hogwarts. "And she's nosy." 

When he doesn't take the stew, Harry sets it on the bed between them. 

"What, did she ask you why you were out there? It's a perfectly reasonable question, Malfoy. We need to watch our backs, too. And you haven't exactly proven yourself to be the trustworthy sort."

"If you're looking for my undying gratitude, Potter, you won't find it." 

"It's good to see that you didn't actually freeze your pride off, I guess," says Harry. 

The lights flicker then, and most of them go out suddenly, only two dim flames from candles on the table are left to light the room. The sun has gone down faster than Harry expected. From the other room comes the sound of Hermione cursing.

Draco smirks at that. "Granger's got a mouth on her." 

"And a nose and two eyes, too," Harry says. "And she has every right to be annoyed. The magic is gone again." 

"Obviously," says Draco. "So I suppose this means you haven't figured out the cause, either."

"No," Harry says, and he looks down at his lap. It's worse than hunting horcruxes, he thinks. At least then he knew the enemy and had a vague idea what he was up against. This… This is just whispered rumors and dead end trails. 

After a long moment of silence, Draco speaks again. 

"Thank you." 

Harry looks up. "You're welcome. I couldn't let you freeze out there."

"Not for that," Draco says. "Though I suppose it deserves some degree of gratitude. I meant for not asking if my father had anything to do with this. He didn't, by the way. In case you're wondering. He's practically a shut-in these days. Never leaves the east wing."

Harry thinks he should probably say something here, contribute to the conversation in some way, but Draco is still talking. No,he's monologuing now, as if Harry's comment has opened a floodgate. And Harry can't imagine how he'd interrupt even if he wanted to. 

"That's why I was on my own." Draco picks up the bowl of stew and pokes at it with his spoon. "People will believe any stupid rumor going around these days. They're far too eager to believe that I had something to do with this because my father was implicated. The only one who offered to come with me was Parkinson, but she'd only slow me down. Don't get me wrong, she tough enough in her own right, but much too thorough. There's no time to catalogue each clue."

"You've found clues?" says Harry, finally finding a place to break in.

"Hypothetical clues," Draco says. 

"Oh. Right. Why are you telling me all this? Weren't you just biting Hermione's head off for asking too many questions?" 

"That seems like an exaggeration. I haven't spoken to another human being for eighteen days," Draco says. "My need for communication has finally trumped my contempt for you and your tagalongs." 

"When we were out there," Harry says, "you implicated your father." 

"The only thing I implied was that my driving force is spite rather than altruism," says Draco. "If my father had his way, I'd hole up in the Manor, allow his shadow to cast doubt on our family's reputation forever, and give him the benefit of knowing he's broken me."

"So you're on our side because you're rebelling against dad?" 

"To put it crudely, yes."

Harry nods. "Good to know, I guess." 

Draco starts eating and Harry sits back against the wall at the foot of the bed. Draco doesn't know any more than they do. This is not comforting. Harry admits to himself that, in part, he rescued Draco from the cold because he thought it would get them somewhere. He knows he would not have left Draco behind otherwise, but he also would not have sat down on the bed beside him.

"Weasley's not much of a cook," Draco says, when his bowl is nearly empty.

"Hermione made it," says Harry.

Draco sniffs. "Of course she did. Why did I assume the two of you wouldn't make the woman do the cooking?"

"It's not like that," says Harry. "If you'd ever tasted anything Ron tried to make, you'd know. Hermione and I know how to cook like Muggles. We trade off. I was out in the snow saving you." 

"Mmmhmm," says Draco, but he doesn't sound convinced. "I suppose you were." 

Draco scrapes his spoon along the bottom of the bowl for a while and it is the only sound in the room save for their breathing. Harry fidgets at the end of the bed. This is ridiculous. He's a grown man, and he should be out saving the world (again) but instead he's struggling through small talk with Draco Malfoy. He should get up and leave, go find Ron and Hermione and plot a new strategy. If Draco's already been out here for weeks, then there's likely nothing to find. 

Just as he's about to leave, Draco speaks again. 

"I… appreciate what you did," he says, staring intently at the empty bowl. 

Harry waits for a few beats, then rises to his feet. He takes the bowl from Draco, leaning close enough to note that the awful aura of cold that radiated from Draco's skin when Harry found him, is gone. 

"You're welcome," Harry says, and he leaves Draco alone with his thoughts.

***

Harry, Hermione and Ron talk maps and strategy until Harry's throat is dry and sore. Hermione pushes a glass of water in front of him. The magic has been gone for hours again, and there is little fresh water left. Draco has been in that dim room for hours. 

"Someone should check on Malfoy," Hermione says. 

"What for?" says Ron. "We know he's not dead. He obviously doesn't want anything to do with us." 

"You don't get to speak for me, Weasel." Draco is standing in the doorway just then, and Harry has to press his lips together not to smile at the look on Ron's face. 

"See!" Ron says. "He can even walk now. He can pack a bag and get out tonight if he wants."

"As much as it pains me to say it," says Draco, "Weasley is overestimating me."

Harry takes a good look at Draco, and realizes how heavily he leans on the door jamb.

"Yeah, Ron. He's not going anywhere. He probably shouldn't even be up." 

"Third person again," says Draco. 

Harry just glares. " _You_ shouldn't be up." 

Draco opens his mouth, but whether it is to protest or agree, Harry can't tell, because he's rocking forward for a moment, then his eyes turn to thin crescents of white and he falls back. Hermione has her wand out in a flash, forgetting once again, as they all do so often, that there is no magic to use. Draco catches himself on the door jamb.

"Harry," she says, her wand still trained on Draco. "Help him." 

Harry is already on his feet, and he pauses only for a few awkward seconds, trying to figure the best way to support Draco, before scooping him up under the arms from behind. 

"We should get him back to bed," Harry says, and he throws one of Draco's arms over his shoulder.

"I don't understand why he was out here in the first place," she says.

"He's lonely," says Harry. "He wanted company."

"From us?" says Ron. 

"Do you see anyone else around?" Harry calls back over his shoulder, and he follows Hermione down the hall to the bedroom. 

***

This time, when Harry comes out to the kitchen, they don't talk strategy or magical outages or anything of the sort. They talk, for the first time in years, about the old days. Harry thinks it may be the shock of finding Draco Malfoy out in the middle of nowhere, but something has triggered memories that are suddenly not quite as painful as they once were. 

He'd exaggerated greatly when he told Draco that he shared the cooking duties with Hermione, and as they talk about the last time they traversed the countryside in search of some unknown menace, he remembers that Hermione has always done the cooking for them. He thinks maybe he should do something about that. They talk until the oil lamp on the table has burned dangerously low, and Hermione remembers with a gasp that it is not a resource they can afford to waste. 

A few moments of clumsy whispering later, they are getting into bed. Hermione takes the long sofa under the window. Ron climbs into the top bunk. Harry stands over his bunk for a moment. Draco is sleeping, pressed against the wall, breathing softly and evenly. At first, he isn't sure what to do. He imagines that if he stands there for a second longer, he'll hear Hermione chastising him that they're grown men and unless he wants a spot on the bare wood floor, he needs to get into that bed. 

So he does. 

Harry climbs into the bed and lies on his back, pulling a blanket over himself, careful to keep it off Draco. Separate blankets, separate sleeping areas. He reminds himself that the wizarding world could very well be in peril right now. He doesn't have the luxury to be worried about what it means to sleep this close to Draco Malfoy. 

The space between them seems enough at first, but soon it fills with heat and it's almost as if Harry can feel Draco's back pressed against his elbow. He closes his eyes, then opens them again. Draco stirs, murmurs something incoherent, and falls back to sleep. Harry folds his hands over his stomach and stares at the bunk above him. 

Every time Ron moves the wooden frame creaks. Draco twitches. The cottage is small and mostly unfurnished. Unless Harry wants to sleep at a wooden chair in the kitchen, this is what he has. At least the mattress is wide enough for the both of them. Harry closes his eyes, fading in and out, the unease that always follows him in sleep these days. When he's sleeping, he's not aware. Constant vigilance and all. 

Then Draco rolls over. 

There isn't much moonlight, just the barest sliver reflects off the snow through the small window across the room. Draco's profile is lit just enough that when Harry finally looks, he can see the worried creases that frame the corners of Draco's eyes. Even in sleep he isn't restful. 

Harry watches Draco until he falls asleep, the two lying side by side, breathing in time. For months now Harry has felt worlds away from everyone and everything else. As if he's lived only inside his head. But tonight his last thoughts are about Draco, and all of the unanswered questions brought on by his presence. 

***

The first thing Harry notices as he wakes is Draco's hand tucked into the crook of his arm. It's accidental, of course it is, but he doesn't know what to do about it. He glances across the room, at the empty bed beneath the window. When Hermione got up, did she see this? Did Ron? The top bunk is silent. They're alone in the room. Harry thinks about extricating Draco's hand with his own, but can only imagine the stream of sarcasm he'll have to endure if Draco wakes up to see Harry _holding_ his hand. 

"Malfoy," he whispers instead. "It's morning." 

Draco scrunches up his face and doesn't open his eyes. "I could have come to that conclusion on my own, Potter. Is your hero complex so great that now you're trying to rescue me from sleep?" 

"I just want to get out of bed," Harry says. "And you're holding me down."

Draco opens his eyes now, looks at Harry oddly, then down at his hand, withdrawing it swiftly.

"Oi!" Ron is in the doorway, speaking before Harry can read the look on Draco's face. "Are you getting up for breakfast or are you going to stay here and snuggle Malfoy?"

"Grow up, Ron," Harry says, and he rolls away from Draco, away from whatever awkward moment was about to come next, and rises to his feet. 

***

For three days, this is what it's like. Draco keeps to himself mostly, rummaging through the few books Hermione has brought with her, staring out the bedroom window, eating the food Harry prepares (he hasn't let Hermione near the cast iron stove since Draco's comment) in small quantity. At night, Harry lies down beside him and they sleep. In the morning, Harry wakes to find Draco's hand resting on him. He is starting to get used to it. 

The magic comes back twice during this time. On the second day, with such sudden force, that the little blue flames Hermione set about the kitchen the last time there was magic suddenly burst through their jars, and she shrieks in surprise before dousing them. Draco is in the doorway then, and Harry thinks he must have _run_ from the bedroom to get there so quickly, but he composes himself when he sees all is well. Hermione sets one flame to light in the center of a deep bowl, and places it on the table. Hours later, when the magic flickers off again, she takes the bowl outside and fills it with snow. 

The second time the magic returns is in the middle of the night, when an owl wakes them by fluttering frantically against the window. Though they've searched daily for fallen owls, this one could not have been far off, its feathers heavy with ice crystals. Magical owls, they've learned, lose all sense of direction when the magic goes out, and land wherever they are, waiting out the dry spell. The cold weather is particularly hazardous. But when they are traveling far from the places they can receive Muggle post, taking a chance by owl is the only way. 

Hermione lights the tip of her wand and wraps the owl in an afghan. Then she squints at the script on the envelope. 

"It's for Draco," she says, and she looks toward the bed where Harry and Draco are sitting up side by side. 

Ron's head appears above them. "I thought you said you were out here alone, Malfoy." 

"I am," says Draco, and he catches the envelope Hermione has sent floating toward him. "That doesn't mean no one cares that I'm alive. _Lumos._ " The tip of his wand glows and he takes one look at his name on the paper, then tucks it beneath his pillow. 

"You're not going to read it?" says Ron.

"Not now," Draco says. "Not with your prying eyes on me." 

"Who's that from, Malfoy?" Ron says. 

"None of your business." 

"If you're going to stay here, we need to know who you're corresponding with."

"Enough, Ron," says Hermione. "And it's _whom_ , for your information. We need to know _with whom_ he's corresponding. Except we don't. Not tonight."

Ron sighs and flops back to his pillow. "I don't understand why you two trust him so much. It's _Malfoy_. We don't know anything about what he's doing out here."

"We don't even know what we're doing out here," Hermione says tartly. "Go back to sleep, Ron. We can talk about this in the morning."

Draco is already lying down again. Harry watches as Hermione, her form blurry from across the room without his glasses, warms and dries the owl. Then she takes it to the kitchen for some food. He wonders how much they even have left by now. When she's left the room, they hear Ron begin to snore. 

"Didn't take him long," says Draco, as Harry lies down again. 

"It never does," Harry says.

It's quiet for a moment, and then, "It's from my mother. The letter."

Harry doesn't know what to say to that and he searches for something to ask. Finally, "Does she know where you are?"

He can feel Draco shake his head. "I sent word that I was alive two months ago."

"You've been gone that long?" 

"Haven't you?" 

Harry shrugs. "We've been home in between searches. Waiting for leads. Draco, how do you know where you're going? How did you end up here? We have an entire team scouring Muggle and magical news for clues. How are you doing this on your own?" 

He wonders now if Ron isn't right in some way, if Draco isn't being guided by something darker. Something as dark, perhaps, as the thing they're trying to find.

"I have my methods," says Draco, and he's quiet for a long moment. "But I haven't traded my soul or put my father's special _collection_ to use, if that's what you're worried about."

"Of course I wasn't--" Harry cuts himself off. He doesn't need to defend himself to Draco. He has every right to be suspicious. "We're leaving this place in the morning. It's only been a dead end."

Draco's breath comes in deep, steady inhalations, and Harry wonders if he's fallen back to sleep. When he speaks again, his voice is so soft that Harry can barely hear it. 

"What if I told you it's not a dead end? What if I told you there's something here, and I can help you find it." 

"I'd question your motives," Harry says honestly. 

"I suppose you would." 

"But if you had a lead… I'd listen. So would Hermione and Ron." 

Draco snorts. "Granger maybe. But not Weasley. There's no peace between us." 

"Ron's all talk. Not so different from you that way. He'd listen. We all would." 

Harry imagines that Draco is weighing his options now, much the way Harry did three days ago when he found Draco in the snow. He waits to hear what Draco has to say. 

"Over breakfast. I'll tell you everything in the morning." 

"Okay," says Harry. He is feeling something very much like hope. Until a few minutes ago, he'd been certain that he was beginning to forget what hope feels like. After a beat, he adds, "We have ways--Muggle ways--of contacting Narcissa, letting her know you're alright. If… If that's something you want to do." 

"Very much," says Draco, and his voice has gone a little rough.

Harry exhales. "Goodnight, Draco." 

"Goodnight, Potter." 

Later, when Draco thinks Harry is sleeping, he lights his wand and reads the letter three times. Harry keeps his eyes closed and pretends not to notice a thing. 

In the morning, the sun is shining in a clear sky, the room lit painfully bright after a night of fitful sleep. Draco's arm is slung across his middle. Harry looks at it for a moment, looks at Draco's face, the deep creases at the corners of his eyes somehow less tight this morning. Life feels fractured, as if all the pieces of it have cracked and slid just the smallest degree from their original positions. It's been like this since magic began retreating from their lives. Harry turns on his side, facing Draco, and closes his eyes again. Breakfast will come soon enough. This thin slice of comfort is what he chooses for now.

Draco's arm is heavy on Harry's waist, his fingers loosely resting against the small of Harry's back. It is absurd and unlikely and unexpected and _welcome_ , and Harry finds himself thinking that if they ever manage to make the magic return, it will feel something like this.

[END]

**Author's Note:**

> Leave your comment here or at [Livejournal](http://hd-owlpost.livejournal.com/87583.html). Comments are ♥


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